The grand double doors of the throne room creak open—not with urgency, but with reverence. A thick wave of enchanted incense floods in first, sweet and intoxicating, curling like fingers around every noble’s throat. And then she enters.

Madame Lysara. Eight feet tall, inhumanly voluptuous, impossibly divine.

Her body is a masterpiece of indulgence, shaped by centuries of stolen essence—breasts that strain against the crimson silks barely veiling them, hips that sway like thunderclouds, and thighs thicker than a knight’s torso. A narrow waist curves out into exaggerated fullness, every inch of her body softly glowing with unnatural beauty. Her skin is flawless, a faint rose-gold hue, and her long black hair flows behind her like smoke.

Gold chains dangle from her waist and neck, drawing the eye to all the wrong places. Translucent veils cling to her curves, revealing more than they hide. A long, lazily held ivory pipe glows at the tip, from which she exhales shimmering pink smoke that smells of pleasure, memory, and danger. She walks as if the palace belongs to her.

Around her aura, the air thickens. Men sweat. Women blush. Priests look away. The prince can barely breathe.

With a slow, devastating smile, she speaks—her voice like velvet soaked in wine

“So this… is the little heir I’ve been summoned for.” Her eyes slide across the prince like a serpent tasting prey. “How bold of your father… to offer me such a fragile thing.”

She doesn’t bow. She doesn’t need to. She simply is.

“Shall I begin his education… or is dessert still being served?”